When you're four years old, the world is filled with legends. In Musutafu, those legends walk in the skies—heroes glaring down villains and quirks flashing like miracles from the pages of comic books.
By the time kids enter kindergarten, most of them have awakened something, even if it's as small as glowing fingertips or hair that can float. By four, my friend Riku could already send sparks dancing from his palms. By four, I still had nothing.
"Don't be sad, Yuto," my mother smiled when she saw me watching the other kids show off. "Sometimes quirks take longer to appear. Yours will be special—I can feel it."
I wanted to believe her. Desperately. Because being "quirkless" was a label sharp enough to cut.
It happened on an ordinary morning.
Mom set down a plate with a fried egg, steam curling up in the air. I cut into it slowly, put a piece in my mouth—and then paused.
A ripple surged through me. Not heat, not pain. Awareness.
For a split instant, my mind flooded with knowledge I shouldn't have had—the way a chicken's muscles worked, the faint trace of its wings, the life it once carried. My hand tingled, faint lines of light tracing across my skin before fading.
I stared, wide-eyed. What was that?
"Yuto? Are you okay?" Mom asked, startled by the look on my face.
"I think... I know where this came from," I whispered.
That day was the true awakening of my quirk.
I discovered quickly through small experiments: if I touched or consumed something from a living being below quirks—plants, animals, even insects—and wished for it, I could momentarily absorb a piece of its traits.
More than just energy. It was like borrowing the blueprint of nature itself. Grass made me feel a faint connection to sunlight. A fish gave me sharper breath control, as if my body wanted to pull oxygen more efficiently.
The effects didn't last long. Within minutes or hours, they faded.
But the quirk carried with it a quiet rule, an instinct engraved in my bones:
Absorb a species once, and you borrow it temporarily. Absorb the same species one hundred times, and its traits become permanent.
At first I was cautious, almost scared. Not because it hurt—it didn't. There was no hunger or compulsion. It was purely a matter of will, of choice. When I wished for absorption, the quirk activated. When I didn't, nothing happened.
And that was the relief. This wasn't some parasite that devoured without control. It was mine. I could guide it, mould it, and grow with it.
So I began to test.
Eating everyday meals now came with thought: when I touched spinach, I whispered internally, absorb. A fleeting spark of chlorophyll echoed in my cells for a heartbeat.
With a fly, I forced myself to swallow it down—absorption granting me twitchy reflexes for the rest of the afternoon. If a ball flew my way in the park, I could snap my hand up faster than I thought possible.
Mom noticed my bursts of odd energy, but I said nothing yet. I wanted to understand what I had before I burdened her with the truth.
I began keeping a notebook under my bed:
Spinach (x3 so far): Stamina boost under sunlight, gone within 10 minutes.House Fly (x2): Sudden reaction speed, nauseating if used too long.Salmon (x1): Improved oxygen flow, faint gill-pressure in throat.Chicken Egg (x1): Autoimmune strength-up, boost fades quickly.
Each entry was short, matter-of-fact. But to me, it was a map. A roadmap to becoming more.
Things got more complicated at school.
"You still haven't shown a quirk, huh?" Riku teased, sending tiny sparks crackling near his desk. "Bet you don't even have one. You'll end up invisible! A nobody!"
The words stung. I clenched my fists. The truth sat on the tip of my tongue, but how could I explain?
I didn't want them to think of me as a thief, even if I wasn't stealing quirks. Powers made people heroes. My ability sounded like parasite.
So I kept quiet.
But Mom wasn't blind.
She came into my room late one night, smiling as always, but her eyes sharp. The notebook in her hand told me she had found it.
"Yuto," she said softly, sitting beside me. "This is your quirk?"
I hesitated. "Yes. Trait absorption. Only plants and animals. No quirks. Just... things under quirks."
Her hand rested on my head. "You hid it because you thought I'd be afraid?"
I bit my lip and nodded.
She laughed—warm, not mocking. "Silly boy. There is nothing frightening about wishing to grow. If your quirk lets you learn from life, then use it. Use it to become stronger. Use it for good."
Her words made my chest feel light. This wasn't a curse. It wasn't villainy. It was potential.
From then on, I wasn't ashamed. I was determined.
I picked my experiments carefully, whispering absorb whenever I touched something new. A blade of grass in my hand as we walked to school. A sliver of fish at dinner. Even brushing the fur of a stray cat that wandered our neighbourhood.
Each time, it was a spark, a fragment of evolution flowing through me—even if only for a short while.
And always, I counted.
One out of one hundred. Two out of one hundred. How many would it take before I surpassed human limits?
Most kids dreamed of being flashy heroes. Explosions, firestorms, telekinesis.
Me? I dreamed of permanence. Of building myself piece by piece, nature engraved into every bone and breath.
Not by hunger. Not by theft.
By choice. A wish to grow.
This was the start of my path toward becoming something new—neither predator nor parasite.
A boy who could stand among heroes by carrying the strength of the world within himself.
This cleaned-up version removes the hunger/parasitic instinct entirely and reframes the quirk as a conscious, will-driven act. It gives a more heroic tone from the start and avoids the accidental "villain-coded" vibe while still keeping the power unique and versatile.
100 ps = 1 new chapter
200 ps = 3 new chapters